Best Laid Plans(149)

They turned another sharp curve, and a stream came fast down the mountain in a twenty-foot waterfall and went under the path. A makeshift bridge had been built over it—but it didn’t look stable.

“One of the scout troops did that,” Chuck said. “Probably safe, but step over it if you can.” He went first, then held his hand out for Max. She took it and stepped over. Trixie showed her head, Chuck signaled her, and the dog ran off again.

The vast beauty of the mountains could turn to a nightmare—in the dark, in the winter, during a storm. Scott was out here, alone. Angry. Scared. Had he really walked off? Gotten lost? Why? It didn’t make sense, knowing what she did about him.

They continued on, more than a half mile past the stream. They’d already been walking for an hour. The only sounds were dripping water, birds, a faint rustle of leaves. There was no wind, no voices, no traffic.

Max could handle only so much silence before she started getting nervous. Chuck was ten feet in front of her because the path was too narrow for them to walk side by side. “If—” she began when Trixie barked.

The steady barking cut through the subtle sounds of the forest. Max slipped and fell on her ass. “Shit,” she muttered.

Chuck turned, smiled, and offered her a hand again, which she gratefully took. He pulled her up with strength she wouldn’t have expected from his trim frame. “Trixie found something.”

“Could it be an animal?”

“She knows the difference. And if there was a threat, she has a different bark.”

They continued down the path, an even steeper embankment than before, but Max managed to keep her balance by holding on to the tree trunks as she went. Then the path leveled out. “The old scout camp is through there.” He pointed straight ahead. “You can see where the bridge collapsed.”

At first Max didn’t see; then it was clear that it had been a rope bridge. Thick ropes were tied to a tree trunk on either side of a steep cavern that looked at least a hundred feet deep and twenty feet across. An echo of rushing water came up from the depths.

Max never considered that she was afraid of heights, but it would take a lot of cajoling for her to take a rope bridge over that cavern.

Trixie’s steady barking came from the right. Away from the scouting camp.

They turned and walked steeply up a trail twenty yards before they found Trixie standing, her head facing into a grove of trees. Chuck called her back with a whistle, and she immediately came to him and stopped barking. He gave her a scratch and a treat, then some water.

Max tried to be patient, but it didn’t come naturally. She inched forward, and Chuck followed.

Just off the trail, a black sleeping bag was bunched up against a tree, partly buried in leaves and dirt. There was some snow that hadn’t melted, but as they approached, the ground was soft and muddy.

At first, Max didn’t see anything other than the dark bag. Then she saw the fingers of a hand, barely exposed through the opening.

“Stay here,” Chuck told her. He walked over, bracing himself against the tree trunk to keep from sliding down the slick mud. He pulled back the top of the sleeping bag and peered inside. A foul stench hit Max, and Trixie whimpered, then lay down with her head on her paws. If a dog could look sad, Trixie was miserable.

Max squatted down and scratched her behind the ears. “You’re a good girl, Trixie,” she said. Her voice cracked.

Scott Sheldon was most certainly dead, his body remarkably preserved in the cold climate.

“Well, shit,” Chuck said. “You always hope they ran off with their girlfriend.”

He knelt to inspect the body. “No obvious signs of injury. No visible blood—if there was blood, I suspect the animals would have found him long ago.”

“Their statements were identical,” Max said, anger rising. “They claimed that they were hanging out at the campsite, drinking beer, and joking around. Scott got mad and stomped off toward where they’d parked, two miles away. At night. But on the map, where they parked was in the opposite direction from this trail. So either they lied about the direction—”

“Or were too drugged up to notice,” Chuck suggested, and Max agreed that it was a possibility.

“Or,” she continued, “they lied about him leaving in the first place.”

“Before you jump to conclusions, Ms. Revere, let’s see what the coroner has to say. She’s a fine doctor. If there was foul play, she’ll figure it out.” He pulled out his radio and contacted Tim and Ann. “Tim? Go back to the truck and retrieve the gurney and body bag. Meet us at the campground. We’ll lead you to the body.”





CHAPTER SEVEN



“What happened?” Adele Sheldon asked Max.

Max was in her room at the Broadmoor, sitting at her desk. She didn’t know what to say—a first for her.

“Detective Horn called me,” Adele said, a hitch in her voice. “I knew he was dead, I knew it, but…,” Her voice trailed off on a sob.

“Would you like me to drive down and see you?” It was almost a two-hour drive. She didn’t want to go tonight, but she would, for Scott’s mother.

“No, I want you to find out what happened. You were there. You saw him.”

“We need to wait for the autopsy results.”